I’m eleven years old. I’ve just started a new academic year in primary school and my teacher, Mr Stynes, is eying me curiously. ”You’ve read all the books in our school library?” he asks, a little incredulous but waiting to be convinced. I have, I tell him. He nods, considers, smiles. The next day, he brings me in The Hobbit.
And for the following two years, he ensured I was never out of books and never short of writing materials.
Earlier this week, I composed a tweet. I’d received some terrific news. My latest crime novel, The Confession, had received a starred Publishers’ Weekly review in advance of its September release in the US. Starred reviews are the holy grail for authors.
I say composed - like any tweet, I banged it out with little thought, other than wanting to share good news.
The tweet went viral. Along with it came what I can only describe as an outpouring of love for teachers. Me too, said the responses. A teacher raised me up and gave me the support I needed.
There were also the less positive tweets. Why does it matter you lived in a council house? My teacher told me I was rubbish, I did well anyway!
If you have to ask why it matters that I came from a deprived neighbourhood, you’re missing the point. It’s just fact. Socioeconomic circumstances affect life opportunities. And, worse, ambitions.
I went to primary school in an educationally disadvantaged area. Put it this way - the percentage of kids progressing from there to university was at the time negligible and is still in the low single digits.
Mr Stynes had a classroom of approximately 40 kids. Some were a little better off than others, all were working class in the 1980s definition of the word. In our household, there were particular issues that led to acute disadvantage.
Mr Stynes, and a subsequent teacher in secondary school, weren’t blind. They saw the need, the difference. They also saw ability and talent. And they went out of their way to support it. They read my work aloud (mortifying at the time but instilling a subconscious sense of pride) and, most importantly, repeatedly told me I could and would be a writer.
I didn’t run from education, despite other pressures. I went on to study at one of Ireland’s leading universities, Trinity College, bolstered by these wonderful teachers who had seen me and pushed me.
A college lecturer later collared me and asked why I wasn’t attending any lectures. I can write the most devious of plots. My readers think I’m a twisted, evil genius (a compliment in my game). But, trust me, in real life, I can’t lie or con to save my life. I was working two jobs to pay costs and rent, hadn’t been to a lecture all year. He gave me a first for my assignment because, he said, my ridiculously non-factual stream of consciousness showed phenomenal skill with the English language. Whatever you do, he said, write.
In all that followed - a place on a Richard and Judy shortlist, instant book deals, TV scriptwriting, international bestsellers - the advice of teachers has never left me.
Not all teachers, like not all tweeters, are flawless. But some are gems.
For my first book launch, I tracked down Mr Stynes (the other teacher had sadly passed away) and invited him. There, I presented him with a gift, turning Mr Stynes red-faced for a change.
“But tonight is your night,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “It’s ours.”
Many people have supported me along the way. But the words you hear as a child stay with you. Teachers hold great power. Some children will succeed anyway. For others, a kind word from their teacher, an extra push, is all that’s needed.
We will hold your encouragement in our hearts for a lifetime and we’ll do you proud.
Joanne Spain is the author of No.1 bestseller The Confession and DCI Tom Reynolds series
